a matter of choice
by the queen of slurking
Summary: it's days like these that katherine hates isobel. or, envying the descendant for having choices you didn't have. set anytime.


_**AN: Forgot to do this with 'and eternity goes on.' I do not own anything, except for a frighteningly tall stack of exercise books. I would very much like an Elijah for myself, but who wouldn't?**_

Katherine hates Isobel some days.

They team up, ancestor and descendant and Isobel is not good at keeping things close to her chest. She's a new vampire, still young and her emotions run all over the place. They're drinking in a bar and some cute guy comments on them being sisters.

Isobel giggles too wildly and drinks too much too fast and Katherine wonders when she became the sensible one.

(Oh yeah. It was when she introduced herself as an ancestor and demanded that they not draw their existence to the attention of Klaus and Elijah)

Isobel's still in the hedonist stage of her turning – emotions are high and she's revelling in the thrill of being _strongerprettierfastersmarter_. She flirts because she can and picks men for feeding, delights in the alcohol tolerance and dances with sunlight, jumping through beams _just _fast enough that they warm her but nothing more. So she heals the boy's neck – after five hundred years he's a boy even though he has at least five years physically on her – and doctors his memory. Isobel pays her no mind and she jabs her with a bony elbow, gritting her teeth.

(She doesn't stop to dwell on the oddity of being the older one in this situation)

Isobel's daughter would be fifteen today.

Katherine is tempted to pay a visit, see if there's a resemblance, but she's too far away and doesn't know if others have learnt about her own daughter yet. She can't take risks just yet, and there's really no telling what the girl could look like. Isobel is drinking more, the harder stuff a change of pace from the usual beer or red wine.

(Katherine doesn't tell her that she was there when she gave birth)

She remembers Isobel's cries of pain, the baby's wails as she took her first breath, and thinks bitterly _it's alright for some._ She never had the luxury of pain relief and never got to hold the girl – one brief glance at her before she was gone, and she hates Isobel for choosing to give up her own child. True, she was listening outside, hidden in the shadows – _how lucky for her that the child's uncle could secretly deliver a child_ – and heard Isobel's sobs as she expressed the want for the girl to have a better life than she could provide.

From what she's seen, girls in this time are freer to do as they please. Being an unwed mother is not always a stain upon the family. Some girls are supported through it, and she hates Isobel for being lucky enough to have the choice.

Her own Anastasia (after one wistful dreamy evening with Trevor she picked a name, just to pretend the child was still hers) was probably long buried now. She'd watched over her descendants for some decades, drawing back when decades slipped into a century and Klaus might be watching.

She's grateful that she never mentioned her daughter to them in England, else Klaus would be watching the next generations for her copy.

She sips her merlot and grits her teeth as the music changes. Pop music is one thing she dislikes about the century: the tempo of this song is all wrong, the piano is out of place and the _singing_… she tries to forget her sister, Katya's lilting voice on sunny summer mornings as they played and spent time with their mother.

Isobel still needs the lapis lazuli, she reminds herself, and wonders when she became a shadow of a woman, the one sitting aside drinking while her companion flirted and giggled and had fun.

Her descendant tells her about Damon and how he turned her, and she nearly chokes at the irony. Her daughter torn from her arms and herself turned to survive – her great-times-whatever granddaughter choosing to leave her child.

The stem of her glass snaps and she compels the bartender that she dropped it.

He smiles and picks it up, and Isobel watches with interest, lest he scrape himself on a piece of glass.

Isobel pulls him into a back room and Katherine diverts herself with another boy – he's a bit too preppy for her tastes, but he'll do.

_My sister's gone home. _

_I hate to see a pretty girl sitting alone._

It's a familiar dance for her, one honed from decades of moving and toying with men to get from one place to the next. There'll be a few drinks, and then he'll enquire about where they'll continue. She'll decide his place, working his ego, and they'll go.

Isobel won't mind.

She'll sneak out before dawn, making sure Isobel is indoors and the house is dark.

True to form, the boy glances at his watch and comments on the time.

She's transported to five centuries prior with Aleksandar. This boy is arrogant and confident, as if no woman would ever refuse him. Maybe they don't. He's a contrast to Aleksandar, who so shyly asked permission to kiss her. This one takes the lead and kisses her boldly, and she tells herself she prefers it.

A familiar nostalgia, that _somethingnotquitethere _pricks at her mind and she coyly asks if he isn't going to invite her in, expertly masking the fact that she _needs_ to be invited. He does, mock-chivalrous, and looks slightly put out when she doesn't giggle and flutter her eyelashes.

He's more serious now and he reminds her too much of Aleksandar, who kissed her shyly and played with her hair and unravelled her braids. She sees him in this boy, and shoves away the memories of something decadent and slightly forbidden and the imagination that someone might _know,_ just from being around her. His eyes, darker now, remind her of the next morning and how she scrambled home to bed, rising and then pretending nothing was amiss.

The switch is off, it always is now, but still she is hard-pressed to forget the realization, some three months after her dalliance with him, that something was amiss.

She bites him, tearing skin and drawing blood and compels away his memories, giving him new ones in their place. It's more efficient, she learned, and less conspicuous than putting blank patches in a memory.

Two hours before dawn Isobel stumbles in, shoes hanging from her fingers and dark hair awry. It's a tiresome cycle, where Isobel staggers home before sunrise and behaves as though she hasn't a care in the world. They do this frequently, in various cities and towns, a warped mother-daughter game where she takes care of her descendant because she's too busy having fun. Katherine swallows down the anger and fakes a smile, playing with her daylight pendant.

The daughter's birthday is passed; she will pay a visit to Mystic Falls later. Isobel prattles about last night and she wonders if the other vampire isn't just covering up her sorrow at not being a part of her daughter's life.

She reads the newspapers, checking for stories of unusual behaviour or worrying headlines and watches as Isobel retrieves bourbon and a tumbler. It occurs to her that in the months she's known her, Isobel hasn't expressed a desire to meet her daughter, and she's been quite good at working secrets and information out of her.

She decides that Isobel hasn't the inclination to meet or know her daughter, and throws the newspaper in the fireplace.

Katherine hates Isobel some days.


End file.
